<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Cycles by forgotten_constellation</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511249">Cycles</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgotten_constellation/pseuds/forgotten_constellation'>forgotten_constellation</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A/B/O Gender Roles, Alpha Villanelle, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Assassins &amp; Hitmen, Biological Androgyny, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Codependency, Established Relationship, F/F, Fpreg, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kid Fic, Killing Eve (TV 2018) Season/Series 03, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Eve, POV Outsider, Post-Canon, The Twelve - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:13:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,338</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgotten_constellation/pseuds/forgotten_constellation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you happy you got the girl, Eve? Not a half-bad job, and a family. Safety, at least in the way that assassins have safety."</p><p>Carolyn asks the question mostly to put her off balance. This is a habit she has been unable to push since she realized she could read people in between the lines of the performances they put on for others. She's surprised by the tired little smile that crosses Eve's face. She looks down at where her daughter is sleeping peacefully in her bed, dark curls a sprawling mess against her pillow. </p><p>"Could have been a lot worse."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>530</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is mostly complete, but I have a busy job and not a lot of willingness to self-edit or reach out to others for editing. I'll get it all up within the month at least, haha. Enjoy</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hannah is starting to rue the day little Ekaterina Park smiled her way into the hearts of her classmates at Little Lions’ Daycare. There are any number of equally qualified places in Hartford, especially for a little Alpha so obviously bored to tears with much of what she’s being forced to learn, but Ekaterina’s perpetually frazzled omega mother--looking for the closest daycare to and from her daily commute to the FBI office in New Haven--had been politely but firmly insistent on squeezing her child in last minute, far past the deadline for new arrivals. And thus, ever since, working has been something of a nightmare. Ekaterina is charming, deeply intelligent, and has a tendency to be a little bit of a queen bee. She’s a six-year-old terror.</p><p>She’s never outright unkind to her classmates, but she has limits and tests and initiations. This child would have to find some way to dismember a doll before being allowed to play pretend McDonalds during outside playtime; that child needed to perfectly recite, in Spanish, the numbers one through ten. Most ordinary children are kind enough, but lack of focus is their trademark, so Hannah and her coworkers have fielded many a frustrated or weepy child’s appeal for advice. Ekaterina said do this, Ekaterina said wear your hair down, Ekaterina wants to know if she can bring some of her daddy’s cookies next week but only if they did the Numa Numa Dance with her, and what even is the Numa Numa? </p><p>Today, the issue is simple. Ekaterina’s birthday is rapidly approaching--the fourth of June--and there is no guarantee that her father will be in town for it because she has been out for work. She’s made her frustration open and clear for everyone willing to hear it, and her misery has spread like a disease to her classmates. Without her there to corral them into organized games of pretend or regale them with her whimsical stories, the morale of Hannah’s Creative Cubs crew has been on a noticeable downtick. Hannah has given many a hug and wiped tears and spoken words of encouragement that are falling on ears deaf with sadness.</p><p>“But, like,” Tyrone is saying, tiredly running his hand through his wild, kinky curls, “she’s been here for almost nine months and none of us have even seen her dad.” </p><p>They’ve all smelt her, to be sure. The smell of a healthy and protective Alpha is distinctive, and it follows both Ekaterina and her mother like a brand. Silent, just shy of obnoxious, <em> do not touch </em>. They’ve all managed to wiggle information out Mrs. Park about her Mate--she studies fashion part time at the nearby university, and she’s trying to disentangle herself from her family business to stay home with their daughter as she pursues her real dream of being a designer. It seems like such an odd pursuit, and she can’t imagine how their work would ever see them crossing circles. </p><p>“That’s what I’m saying!” Hannah fusses. “Maybe this is it. Maybe this is a way to get her attention. I feel bad for Kat, though. Her parents are always busy.” </p><p>“I bet they expect a lot of her.” Molly interjects.</p><p>She’s met with murmurs of contemplative agreement, her fellow workers expressing their solidarity on their shared lunch break with a shake of their heads.</p><p>They launch into several theories on little Ekaterina’s strange behavior. Will thinks she’s just a genius and needs to be placed somewhere she’ll be challenged, which Hannah privately admits to herself might not be an untruth. Meredith is guiltily amused by Ekaterina’s recent mission to teach her classmates basic Korean. Pilar bemusedly recounts a conversation in stilted Spanish--Ekaterina had frustratedly said “I’m learning! Excuse mistake!” after forgetting the word for blue. </p><p>Eventually, a soft knock draws their attention to the door. </p><p>Standing there is a woman Hannah has never seen before, but there’s still something familiar about her. She’s fairly tall, and is wearing a wildly patterned pantsuit, all diagonal stripes in differing dark blues and blacks. Her honey blonde hair is pulled over her shoulders, resting just along her collarbones in a fresh cut. She looks professional. She looks expensive. The way she holds herself is somehow both casual and loud, shoulders back and straight, taking up space in the unconscious way of Alphas. </p><p>“Can we help you, Miss…?” Hannah hedges. </p><p>“Park.” The woman supplies, and Hannah is briefly stunned by the richness of her voice. </p><p>Then, several other things begin to make a lot of sense pretty quickly.</p><p>“Oh, wow!” Molly exclaims, rather unprofessionally. “Hi! It’s so nice to meet you!” </p><p>“Yeah, feeling’s mutual, I guess,” Mrs. Park--Villanelle, Hannah remembers the records listing her name as--says, her flatly amused expression completely at odds with the greeting.</p><p>They’ve all been caught off guard, a swarm of omegas faced with confrontation with an unfamiliar Alpha, both nervous and quietly delighted to happen upon at least a part of the source of their gossip. Hannah’s stuck on the last name. Even if an omega keeps their last name, it’s a little uncommon to see an Alpha taking their omega’s last name in a marriage. Still, the off-color aura of her somehow fits the oddity.</p><p>“Did you come to surprise Kat?” </p><p>The little half smile on Mrs. Park’s face falls at that. “Don’t call her that.”</p><p>Hannah blinks, casts a quick glance at where her coworkers are gaping at them. “...Okay. Did you come to surprise Ekaterina?” </p><p>The smile is back. “Yeah. They’re playing outside right now, right? I’ll sign her out. I promised her ice cream when I got back.” </p><p>Her accent sounds vaguely Eastern European, softened by an obvious comfort with English. </p><p>Hannah scrambles to her feet, briefly brushes the crumbs off of her shirt, and squeaks out a “Follow me!” as she leads Ekaterina’s father through the halls. She has so many questions. She’s so tempted. What does she do for work? Are they going to see more of her now? Is she only coming here today because she won’t be able to make the actual birthday afterall? She’s so much younger than Eve Park--how did they meet? </p><p>But they’re outside and Hannah’s aide cheerily walks over to her to report on the daily goings on. In the interim, Ekaterina has caught sight of them and yelled out a “Daddy!” and rushed over. Mrs. Park lets out a little laugh, kneels, and then catches her daughter easily as anything, pulling her up into a hug. Ekaterina looks mostly like her mother--has her lovely almond shaped eyes, her curly dark hair. But as she pulls back to take her father in, Hannah realizes that they have so much in common that it is almost uncanny. It’s in the confidence of their mannerisms, in raised brows and smiles shot sideways like conspiracies.</p><p>Then, Ekaterina’s little face crumples as she says, “You promised you’d be back a week ago.” </p><p>“I’m sorry.” Mrs. Park says, her face serious. “Are you mad?” </p><p>“Yeah! I’m really, really mad!” </p><p>“That’s okay. I broke my promise, it’s okay to feel mad. Do you still want ice cream?” </p><p>And Ekaterina is sniffling in the cutely dramatic way of all kids, the kind of performative sadness that builds both affection and amusement and exasperation. She rubs at her face and says, “You owe me three fuhlayvors.” </p><p>“Flavors,” Mrs. Park corrects. </p><p>“That’s what I <em> said </em>.” </p><p>“Is not,” said with a deep, teasing tone, as Mrs. Park exaggeratedly rolls her eyes. </p><p>“Is so!” </p><p>“We’ll workshop it. And we can get some extra ice cream to surprise your omma.”</p><p>Ekaterina’s sadness is forgotten in the wake of childish disgust. “You guys are gonna be gross again.” </p><p>“If we hadn’t been gross, you wouldn’t have been born! Be more grateful, you little weirdo!” Mrs. Park laughs, adjusting Ekaterina until she’s resting on her hip. </p><p>Ekaterina instantly rests her head on Mrs. Park’s collarbone, for once all out of chatter. Hannah can’t help a smile at the sight of it. </p><p>“Come on, I’ll take you up front.”</p><p>The brief walk to the classroom for Ekaterina’s things and then front office is littered with burbling conversation between parent and child. Only some of it is in English. Occasionally, Ekaterina lets out a shriek of laughter and bursts out with, “That’s not the right word!” which without fail earns her a playful challenge to provide the correct one, if she’s so big and bad. Hannah recognizes French, of course Korean, and what she thinks might be Farsi.</p><p>As Hannah is running them through the paces, Mrs. Park sets her daughter down and says, “Katya, go wait by the door while we talk.” </p><p>And Ekaterina, to Hannah’s astonishment, obeys without complaint. She does, however, sway impatiently back and forth on her feet and watch them, completely without shame.</p><p>Mrs. Park stands uncomfortably close. Certainly too close for a mated Alpha to an omega she doesn’t know, and too close for strangers besides. That same scent that lingers on her little family fills Hannah’s nose--a vaguely floral musk. Mrs. Park stuffs her hands into her pockets and smiles down at Hannah. </p><p>“Next time you want to gossip about my kid, do it with the door closed.” </p><p>Then she takes the proffered pen and signs her name, <em> Villanelle P. xoxo. </em></p><p>Ekaterina Park is withdrawn from the Little Lions’ Daycare by the end of the week. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“I just, really needed to have a habit away from work and my family, you know?” Is the only explanation Nathan gets for Eve Park joining their book club. </p><p>She and her family are a bit notorious at the Hartford Public Library. Her daughter is a chatty, precocious thing, not really one to withhold a thought as it occurs to her, which has gotten her into a bit of trouble with both children her age and with adults. Eve’s Alpha, a young woman with a job none of them have been able to really pin down, is like a less sweet, more vulgar version of their child, and has gotten into similar trouble with people of all age groups.</p><p>“Yeah,” Nathan says, “I bet.” </p><p>The guiltily knowing look on her face is enough to break Nathan’s momentary irritation. He is a parent, too, knows well the challenges and ins and outs of balancing work with family and somehow having to squeeze in self-care. Who knows, maybe this will be good for the Parks--maybe not having Eve around to lovingly, unknowingly instigate her family’s unique social awkwardness will help them undergo some rapid learning. </p><p>“Are they really that bad?” Eve asks, surprising him. </p><p>“What? No. They’re just. Big personalities.” </p><p>The big personalities in question are standing just outside the glass door, watching from an unsubtle distance. Villanelle gives Nathan a smile that looks more like a grimace than anything, and little Ekaterina gives her mother two encouraging thumbs up. Eve melts at the sight of them. </p><p>“When is the next meeting? I can catch up. I need to get back into reading.” </p><p>“Next meeting is Thursday night. We’re reading <em> Outlander </em> and <em> Warm Bodies </em>. Comparing romances of different generations.” </p><p>Eve gives him a bright smile. “Thanks so much!” </p><p>In the days leading up to the meeting, Nathan extends his warnings to other members of the group, and begs them to give Eve a chance. The issue is not Eve, perse. She’s a little odd, but she’s generally well liked--she has a wry kind of humor that never really hits low. It makes people feel included. Everyone is in on the joke and people like to hear what she has to say, especially with her history working for the British government.</p><p>The issue is that she and her little family are attached at the hip. They do everything together. With Eve being mated to a young Alpha, there are assorted dangers to giving the wrong signals. Villanelle is indulgent and protective, and with that wardrobe, she’s obviously making bank or comes from old money. Nathan knows Alphas like her. She’d love nothing more than to have them all to herself. Not for the first time, he wonders where the heck Eve met her, and how two people like oil and water managed to stay together. </p><p>Sure enough, the first meeting sees Eve peppering Villanelle’s cheek with rapid little kisses of farewell, long after she’d hugged and kissed their daughter (who had had much less qualms about leaving her mother, as she is a voracious reader and is excited to challenge herself), interspersed with murmured comments of, “Please leave,” and “Love you, bye.” and a worryingly amusing, “Make sure Katya doesn’t start a fire or something.” </p><p>“What if <em> I </em> am the one starting the fire?” Villanelle pouts, soaking up the affection. It’s the first break in a stream of complaints--why do I have to leave, Eve it’s not fair, I’ll sit in the corner and be quiet... </p><p>Her hands are firm on Eve’s upper arms, thumbs rubbing little circles. She looks positively chic today in a black turtleneck, red and blue plaid pants, and tan boots. Eve, with her coy sundress, looks like she just stepped out of a garden, simply and breezily beautiful as always.</p><p>“Well then ask Katya to make sure you don’t.”</p><p>“Okay…” </p><p>“I love you.” </p><p>“I love you more.” </p><p>“It’s not a competition, honey.” </p><p>“It totally is, how can I prove it?” </p><p>“By letting me talk about books for a few hours on my own.”</p><p>Defeated, Villanelle rolls her eyes. “Fine, but we’ll be nearby.” </p><p>“You could have stayed home, I promise you that!” Eve laughs.</p><p>Villanelle sways close and Eve easily tilts her head to the side, allowing the Alpha to nose busily at her skin, leaving her mark. It’s kind of indecent, but there’s a sweetness to it, and a comically wretched sadness in Villanelle’s closed eyes and jutting lips, so Nathan urges the rest of the group to turn to the page in the first book they’ll be discussing. </p><p>By the time their little scenting ritual is done, Eve bustles over and pulls her books from her large purse. She’s a silent observer for much of the discussion, but she watches attentively, nodding and emoting along to different analyses. Occasionally, her wife or daughter will pop up to wave or display some find, not satisfied until she nods or shakes her head, sometimes chuckling silently at the reactions she gets. </p><p>“Eve,” Nathan says, “I’ve noticed you’ve been kind of quiet the whole time. Do you have any thoughts?” </p><p>“Who, me? Ah, well. I, um, finished both books.” </p><p>Book club no no number one. Nobody likes a braggart or a know-it-all! </p><p>“What’d you think of them?” Someone else asks, leaning forward. </p><p>“I kind of, um. Hated them. For different but similar reasons? I don’t know. Sorry, I’m being a total spoilsport. I still totally loved hearing what you guys thought about what you’ve read so far.” </p><p>“What’d you hate?” Nathan asks, genuinely curious. </p><p>“It’s like… both of these books tell a story about a really obsessive kind of romance. For <em> Outlander </em>, you get a woman basically leaving her whole life behind for this Alpha she doesn’t know. Like yeah, they’re true mates or whatever, but she comes to him with no resources or social network, and then they’re forced to marry and then she just becomes okay with it really fast? </p><p>“And <em> Warm Bodies </em>. Oh, do I have my issues with it. It’s such an amazing and creative idea, and it’s boiled down to this almost manic pixie dream girl schtick. He wants to feel again and he ate the brain of her boyfriend and now he’s trying to step into that identity? And he keeps her hostage with all of the other zombies where she might be chow--”</p><p>She’s interrupted by the door bursting open. Ekaterina stomps her huffy way in and says, “Omma, this stupid man tried to tell me I couldn’t read one of the Hen--Hardy--Harrity Potter books because I’m too little and daddy threatened to punch him and now they wanna kick us out.” </p><p>Her little face is flush with displeasure. Eve lets out a little coo, folding her book closed to stuff back into her purse so she can gather her child up into a sideways hug as she approaches, smoothing her hand over wild curls. Ekaterina is her mother’s carbon copy, save for the scowl that is all Villanelle. </p><p>“Please tell me daddy didn’t actually punch him.” Eve murmurs.</p><p>“She might have when I wasn’t looking.” Ekaterina complains. </p><p>Eve glances briefly up at the ceiling, biting her lips. Nathan can’t tell if she’s frustrated or trying not to laugh. That seems to happen to her a lot when it comes to Villanelle. </p><p>“Okay. How about, we go stop daddy from getting an assault charge, go to the book shop, and buy you <em> all </em> of the Harrity Potter books?” </p><p>“I like that idea.” Ekaterina mumbles into Eve’s neck. She nuzzles into the opposite side her father had, leaves her own unconscious little mark, Alpha to the core.</p><p>Villanelle rushes up to the door. “Eve, we have to go.” It looks like there are security guards behind her. </p><p>Eve gives them all an apologetic look. “Duty calls. See you next Thursday?” </p><p>They don’t see her next Thursday.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>WOW, I was not at all expecting the response this got. It's such a weird little idea that wouldn't leave me alone, to the point where I literally made a profile just to share it. I wish I had the time to respond to each of you individually. Please know that I read every single one of your comments, and they were a huge motivator to sit myself down and fix this chapter up for posting and start fine tuning the rest. (I wrote a lot of this before the season was over, and I've changed some things accordingly). Also, as a caveat, I know literally nothing about fashion beyond a casual appreciation.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Konstantin sees her, he’s convinced, if briefly, that he might be hallucinating again.</p><p>It’s been years. After his heart attack, after his low point (his trauma, Irina had said, around a derisive smile), he’d seen every head of curly hair, every blond Alpha woman, and flinched back into himself. His policy as a Beta has always been to avoid the odd politics of hormones and mating and scenting--Alphas and omegas both are suggestible, easy to control with experience, and he'd exploited that in his work for The Twelve. That is, until Villanelle had been ushered into his life and proved him wrong in every single way that matters. </p><p>He’d cared for her, in his own way. Loved her, even. Saw a lot of himself in her. But when she was gone, really, truly gone, and Carolyn ignored his calls, and Eve was no longer in England--he hadn’t regretted losing the title of family one bit.</p><p>But, he’s with Irina on Coney Island--a half-joking celebration of freedom hard-earned years down the road--and they pass a mother holding hands with her daughter down the boardwalk, and something in his chest <em> twinges </em>.</p><p>And sure enough, there she is. Irina cradles his elbow as he jerks in place, letting out a noise of concern.</p><p>“I know her,” Konstantin explains. </p><p>The thing is that he doesn’t particularly like her. Certainly doesn’t want to talk to her. His legs are moving almost without his permission, though, and as they approach, Eve looks down at her daughter with an attentive smile.</p><p>“What’s your favorite primate?” The girl asks. </p><p>“I like gibbons. You remember, the ones with the long arms? They’re adorable.” </p><p>“They all look like little grandpas.” </p><p>Eve’s face brightens into a grin. “They totally do.” </p><p>“I think bonobos are cool. I don’t like that they have musk-els though.” </p><p>“Muscles, baby.” </p><p>“I also hate that they don’t spell words the way they sound.” The girl complains, earning a little laugh. </p><p>“So do I.” </p><p>They’re swinging their hands peacefully between them, and Konstantin briefly weighs how wise it would be to interrupt them. </p><p>“How do you know her?” Irina is asking, her hands curling into the back of Konstantin’s shirt. Their time on the run has tempered her, a bit, but when she is afraid, she gets frantic. </p><p>“She’s, um. She was very important to Villanelle.” </p><p>Irina’s worried face rapidly tightens at this. She breathes out, and brings her hands up to briefly smack at her own cheeks. It’s a rare nervous habit, a grounding gesture. Irina is not like most betas in that she has a lot of aggression in her heart, and it sometimes gets her into trouble with those who weren’t expecting it from her. If an Alpha girl had done half the things she did, the punishments would have been less severe. She’s still feeling the effects of it all today, and her resentment is great, has been partly displaced in the form of blaming other people. Konstantin is grateful to have her, but he knows well that he will never be able to give her what she needs. </p><p>“Everything she touches is cursed.” Irina settles on, after a face journey full of frustration. </p><p>Konstantin lets out a bark of a laugh. Irina giggles. They briefly forget themselves, enjoying this rare commiserating pleasure. </p><p>“What’s wrong, Katya? Oh…” </p><p>He looks back at where Eve and her daughter are standing. For one awful, horrible moment, they lock gazes. Eve looks as nervous as he feels. </p><p>“I like your laugh,” Katya calls out to him.</p><p>“I like your hair,” Konstantin replies. </p><p>“It’s jeanetics.” </p><p>“Genetics,” Eve says, out of the side of her mouth. </p><p>“I said it wrong on purpose that time.” </p><p>And something about the lack of hesitation in that response, in the broad smile on this little girl’s face, makes Konstantin’s stomach drop.</p><p>“It’s… good to see you.” He lies. </p><p>“You, too,” Eve lies right back.</p><p>“What brings you here?” </p><p>“It’s the little one’s birthday, and she wanted a vacation. You?” </p><p>“We’re celebrating too. Happy birthday, Katya.” </p><p>The little girl instantly corrects him. “Call me Ekaterina.” </p><p>The irony of that shakes him. Purity, innocence. Russian to the core, though Villanelle would sooner wear tennis shoes from a department store than be caught speaking Russian. </p><p>“Do you want to agree to act like we didn’t see each other after all?” Konstantin asks, hopefully, after the four of them collectively fidget through a tense silence. </p><p>Eve gives him a relieved smile. She draws her daughter close, curls her hands over her shoulders. “I’d love nothing more.” </p><p>They part ways like this: Little Ekaterina waves in a way that’s all Villanelle, wide and energetic even though they’re standing only a few feet apart. Eve wipes furiously at the tears that have sprung into her eyes, pulls her daughter up into her arms, and says a thank you over her head. Irina links her arms with Konstantin’s, and he can feel that she’s shaking. He knows all the things that she wants to say, but he is glad that she doesn’t say them. </p><p>Today is all that had to be. Whatever brought them all here, they obviously had to earn it. He will leave it at that.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Even in fields where Alphas are not as common, they tend to escalate faster, and can dominate the mood of a given space even without trying. This is why there is always a bit of hesitance about accepting Alpha students into the university's fashion design program in the first place, but Villanelle Park had presented a portfolio so interestingly sophisticated and eclectic that they would have been foolish not to accept her.</p><p>Thankfully, much of Villanelle’s obnoxiousness stems from her personality, not her designation. She’s poured milk on the heads of professors and insulted her classmates and walked cheerfully on the trimmed grass just to be frustrating, but when it’s time to work, she works. She’s encouraging to those she believes have genuine promise, and clearly but not unkindly dismissive of those she’s uninterested in. She never asserts her role, never uses commands, and doesn’t really like to be touched. And when she speaks of, or to, her little family, her entire demeanor changes. </p><p>Uriel has long since given up on trying to get Villanelle off of her phone as she works. The general chatter of a workroom is characteristic to anyone working in a hands on field, and especially to students of fashion. He’s fascinated by her regardless. She has a way of multi-tasking that looks so effortless.</p><p>As per usual, when her classmates hear the chime of a FaceTime call, some curious heads crane her way. Uriel, who was in the middle of scolding one of his students for the absurdity of a dress made out of cupcake paper lines, snaps his manicured fingers in her face. </p><p>“Sorry, Dr. U.” </p><p>“Are you? Scrap this, before I get the vapors.” </p><p>His student laughs, but he can see that she’s a little hurt. Feeling like he kicked a puppy, he reaches out and squeezes her arm, one omega to another. The wobbly smile he gets looks a little bit like forgiveness. The idea truly is hideous, though. Part of their senior project is the creation of a limited fashion line. He’s encouraged stepping outside of the box, but he’d love it if they stayed on this planet. </p><p>“Hey, baby girl,” Villanelle is saying, “what color for a pantsuit? Periwinkle or mauve?” </p><p>“Mauve!” her daughter says.</p><p>Villanelle’s brows rise, but Uriel can see her reach down to scribble something into her notebook. She’s got a measuring tape and ribbons around her shoulders, and a pin held precariously between her teeth (she aggressively drives sharp objects into her mannequin as she’s working), looking artfully messy as usual. Today she’s wearing a plaid button down and a stark black mini-skirt, the ensemble quietly flourished with dangly earrings and clunky wedge heels. It shouldn’t really work, and is quieter than her usual look, but it’s amazing on her.</p><p>“Okay. Diet magenta it is.” Villanelle mutters. </p><p>“Navy blue is like less powerful blue!” Ekaterina argues. </p><p>“That makes no sense. Navy blue is like… you take the true blue and turn the lights down a little. But you can still accent it with a lot. What’s not to like?” </p><p>“The last time you wore--Oh, hold on!” </p><p>Uriel can hear the patter of feet, and Ekaterina’s giggle amidst the shuffling of fabric. Then, she whispers out an <em> okay!  </em></p><p>“What are you doing?” </p><p>Villanelle picks her phone back up, smiling at whatever she sees.</p><p>“I didn’t want to be in class so I told Mr. Achebe I had a stomach ache. I think he sent someone to check on me.”</p><p>Villanelle throws her head back on a laugh. “Katya, why did you pick up? You can’t stay in the bathroom forever.” </p><p>“I know how to add and subtract! I can multiply and divide! I’m bored!” </p><p>Several of Villanelle’s classmates break into good natured laughter at that, and it’s like she notices them for the first time, sitting among her scattered supplies and pens and notebooks. She grins briefly up at them before looking down at her phone. “Your omma would never forgive me if I didn’t tell you to go to class.” </p><p>“But do <em> you </em> think I should go back to class?” Is the challenging reply. </p><p>“What is it you Americans say? Plead the Fifth.” </p><p>“Daddy, you’re the worst.” </p><p>They laugh together. The rest of the conversation is brief. Villanelle asks how she’s doing, what she’d like for dinner, what her mother wore this morning when she got ready for work. Ekaterina tells her that her clothes line is going to be the awesomest. They exchange farewells in French.</p><p>Uriel makes his way over to her desk, curious about her latest ideas. He sees a couple of sketches for pantsuits (one of them dutifully colored mauve, with a big frowny face next to it, even though her plan to accent it with navy blue floral embroidery is bold and charming). There’s a design for a dress with very specific measurements. It’s a lovely open-backed number, offset by a high collar. It’s far outside of Villanelle’s chaotic interests--the only thing close is a tentative plan to decorate the bottom hem with gold trim, but there’s a loving quality to its simplicity.</p><p>“That’s gorgeous, dear. Have someone in mind?” </p><p>“Yeah, my wife. But who knows if she’d wear it. She’s shy.” Villanelle murmurs. </p><p>The dress undergoes several transformations over the course of the week, but the spirit of it stays the same. In the end, there are wavelike gold designs along the high collar and hem, and the open back dips as far as is possible before becoming a different garment entirely. Uriel is wondering how many layers are behind the inside joke that had to influence a title like “Sorry Baby.” It’s by far the quietest piece in Villanelle’s fashion line,, ExE. He’d like to see it all come to fruition.</p><p>Villanelle shows her wife the dress over FaceTime, just once. Uriel’s charmed by the smitten laugh that bursts out of her phone. </p><p>“You’re crazy if you think I’m wearing that.” </p><p>“You wore the last one, didn’t you?” Villanelle says, her voice all but a purr. </p><p>“You’re insufferable.” </p><p>“You still had my kid.” Villanelle points out, waggling her brows. "Want to make another one when I get home?"</p><p>“God, I could be watching Divorce Court on my lunch break and instead I’m letting you harass me.” </p><p>Villanelle rolls her eyes. “You love me.”</p><p>Her wife says, “Yeah, I guess I do." </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’ve seen a few people express interest in more, so I’ll leave that at a maybe for now! I was struck with inspiration for this basically mid season-3, and then when I saw the preview for Carolyn saying “Heroes only get the girl in Hollywood,” I wrote the blurb that I used as the summary for this and then started writing around it as the season went on. So--this fic will definitely end at four chapters, because it was only meant to be a peek in type deal to get my thoughts down somewhere and get me back into writing. But I definitely do still have a lot of inspiration for this little world, so I might write more for it in the future. Sorry for the delay. Things have been rough for me, but they've been rough for everybody! I hope this helps a little. I hope that you're staying safe.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s always something of an event when the newbie, Eve Park, scurries her way into New Haven’s FBI field office with her wife hot on her heels. Joseph loves it when she comes in. It helps that Villanelle always takes the time to greet him, all quirked lips and a, “Hey, intern,” hands stuffed in the pockets of whatever ridiculously high fashion outfit she’s dressed in. Whatever her story is, the clearance level is way higher than his, but Joseph is good at reading people. Alpha to Alpha, Villanelle just reads <em> dangerous </em>.</p><p>After receiving his customary greeting, he gives his supervisor the biggest puppy eyes he can manage--she’s got a soft spot for plucky young Alphas. She rolls her eyes, but reaches for the nearest department phone to speak with the higher-ups. It’s a brief conversation, and then he’s given a sighing go-ahead to leave their workspace and go sit quietly in the meeting room. It takes him several minutes to get there. Clearance is tight, and he’s got to wave his card in front of several card readers, and then flash more puppy eyes at the guard standing outside of the conference room. By the time he makes his way into the meeting room, Villanelle is in the middle of a talk with a flurry of agents. She’s got her arm around the back of Agent Park’s chair, fingers playing absently at her loose curls. Agent Park is busily making notes on her little spiral notepad, though he can see her pause to level her wife with a deeply affectionate look, obviously completely unaware that she’s doing it.</p><p>Once he’s acknowledged by all of the agents, he makes his way to a chair at the back, away from the conference table. No matter how much he wants to interject in these meetings, he knows from experience that if he speaks without being spoken to, he will be sent away.</p><p>They ask Villanelle about a number of things. What would be the possible motivations for some of their most wanted? (“If they’re not insane? Money. Are you kidding me?”) What is commonly overlooked by their agents when reviewing criminals who started with petty things and worked their way up? (“You guys always seem to forget that the eye is always on the prize. You get tunnel vision when you’re trying to get a promotion. And <em> that </em> makes you reckless.”) </p><p>“So, Villanelle,” Agent Quintanilla begins, obviously in the middle of asking an important question. </p><p>“So, Agent Q.” She responds, eliciting an eye-roll from Agent Park and scattered chuckles from the rest of the room.</p><p>“What advice do you have for our intern?” </p><p>Joseph doesn’t do fight or flight. He freezes.</p><p>Villanelle leans forward, gives him this inscrutable look so vastly different from the usual playful smirks. “What’s your worst fear?” </p><p>Dumbly, Joseph says, “Death,” which gets him a barking laugh. </p><p>“Change it.” She says. </p><p>“Change it?” </p><p>“Absolutely, change it. Don’t fear the inevitable. You could get pushed into traffic after your shift ends today. You could go swimming and get a terrible brain amoeba. You could get shot in the line of duty if you ever climb the ranks. But, no matter what you do, fear is stupid. Some of the best agents I’ve worked with in places like this have the shittiest idea of self preservation.” </p><p>Agent Park has been watching with this quiet, loving fascination. Villanelle looks back at her as she speaks her last sentence, and Agent Park reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. She keeps her hand there, thumb trailing up lightly against where some of the lighter scent glands would rest, under the chin.</p><p>“But still practice common sense, Joseph,” Agent Quintanilla says, thought there’s this impressed look on her face, like she agrees but won’t verbally confirm. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Villanelle says, rolling her eyes.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Imani can tell she’s going to regret bringing Mia to the neighborhood mom bully’s (she calls him as such because he likes to passive aggressively critique the parenting of most everyone and nobody has the energy to call him out on it) little party, but the whole point of moving out here is that she’s trying and she’s also a little lonely, so at some point it will check out. She’s instantly cheered when she sees the Parks standing outside the house, obviously waffling about whether to actually go in. Villanelle is clutching a tray for dear life, displeasure written all over her face. Eve stands on tiptoe to kiss the curve of her cheekbone, and her face loses years with one smug little smile.</p><p>Imani always observes the three of them with a wistful tightness in her chest. She’s never had an Alpha treat her the way Villanelle Park treats her wife--with this open, protective reverence, even through her many quirks. </p><p>There’s so much to love about Eve, though, she can tell, even from their few brief conversations. She’s wry and observant, never unkind but never untruthful either, and a good conversationalist in the way that she invites sharing without crossing the line to invasive curiosity--the way many people get with Imani, who’s a younger mother and not really inclined to share why. Eve’s always asking after her. Is she eating well? What was it like, studying Engineering? Woman of color and an omega, triple whammy, right? Criminal psychology was the <em> worst </em>, many moons ago. She just tried this new product on her daughter’s hair and it didn’t really work out, did she want it for Mia‘s tighter curls? </p><p>It’s Villanelle who notices her as Imani and Mia approach, and the dramatic look of relief that crosses her face cracks her up as she approaches. </p><p>“Look, Eve. It’s your buddy. Now I know at least one person here isn’t going to ask me what I think about the gluten free bread at the supermarket.” </p><p>Eve perks up, glances over her shoulder. She hides it better, but Imani can tell that she’s similarly relieved. “Oh, hey. Want to get out of here and take our kids to the nearest park?”</p><p>Imani barks a laugh. Mia gives her a hopeful look, but they’ve all made promises, and Ekaterina is already veering close so they can begin their usual round of the babble unique to children, swept up into their own world. </p><p>“Can we really do that?” Villanelle mutters, giving thought to the request on Mia’s face.</p><p>“Give us an hour,” Eve replies, leaning up to drop a kiss onto her wife’s cheek. Villanelle gives Imani a look that says, <em> get a load of this, huh?  </em></p><p>Ekaterina pauses in her chatter to knock on the door, because of course she does. She’s just like that. Imani is once again grateful for her daughter’s beta designation. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes just for a moment, and then she’s staring at Billy’s smiling face. He’s the president of the neighborhood association, his Alpha wife’s a tenured professor with a laundry list of landmark publications and research under her belt, and he won’t ever let anyone forget how smart their children are. </p><p>“You made it! Come in, come in!” </p><p>It’s ironic that he’s so small and cute--freckled face, head full of wavy red hair, a tendency to accessorize and flitter about--because he kind of sucks. </p><p>“I made Shepard’s Pie.” Villanelle says, flatly, as Ekaterina presents the tray proudly. Eve sighs.  </p><p>From then on, things are a flurry of activity. Food is placed, the children are plopped in eyesight in the yard with plenty of games and toys (Imani watches with amusement as Ekaterina takes Mia’s hand and pulls her imperiously towards a stack of blocks), Billy gives the adults a quietly braggadocious tour of his amazing house (the largest in the cul-de-sac), and they settle in.</p><p>Villanelle immediately escapes adult conversation by scurrying outside to play with the children. Kids love her, and though few of the adults in the neighborhood will admit it, they like her, too. It’s funny--Villanelle doesn’t really strike Imani as the kind of person who likes kids that aren’t her own, but she speaks to them as if they’re on a level playing field, and isn’t afraid to look silly. </p><p>Eve sinks into a chair with a sigh, visibly uncomfortable with the way its plush cushions almost devour her. Imani does the same, suffers through the same moment of dragonfly in suburban amber. They share a look. They snicker.</p><p>From then on, they can't seem to stop laughing. Billy bragging, or Mrs. Jameson complaining tactlessly about her husband's poor skills in bed, or recent gossip from the PTA. There's something so desperately normal about it, and Imani does not belong, and neither does Eve, who can't contain dark humor that has their neighbors making scandalized faces.</p><p>"How do I get him to do better?" Mrs. Jameson asks, and Eve says, with a completely straight face, "Tell him you're gonna find a better knot elsewhere."</p><p>Someone asks what it's like to be an FBI agent--the most played out question Eve always gets, she's confessed--and Eve says, "Oh yeah, I totally gave the okay on the death of a bunch of orphans in the name of national security, earlier today."</p><p>When it's over, they're all but shoved out of the door by tensely but politely smiling faces, and Imani's stomach is sore from her laughing, and Mia smiles because she's smiling because that's what children do, and gives her the sweetest little hug around the leg. Ekaterina does the same with Eve, and the picture their little family makes as Villanelle joins them and wraps her arms around Eve's shoulder is nice enough that Imani doesn't feel especially great for the envy that has been blossoming in her chest.</p><p>"If you still wanna take our kids to the park sometime," Eve says, reaching out for Imani's phone with grabby hands as she checks the time, "give me a call."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A Little Over Five Years Ago</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>All things considered, the doctors let Niko know that air can still make its way through his vocal chords; he can talk again with concentration and the knowledge that his voice will probably never sound the same. He decides that thanks, he’d rather not. There’s a seductive escapism in phasing himself out of the society that he’s been slogging through. His father does some searching into nearby communities, gets him set up with classes, and plants himself firmly on the living room couch for the foreseeable future. </p><p>It was always papa who doted, it was always papa saying don’t marry her, it was always papa asking worriedly if he’s okay. Time is a flat circle. </p><p>But then one day, Keiko Pargrave knocks primly on his door and then introduces herself into his space, her daughter strapped to her front. She and Niko have always had a cordial, joking acquaintanceship as the spouses of half-cocked government agents, but they are by no mean friends. Except she looks at Papa, says, “I’m Keiko,” points to her daughter, “that’s Rei, and Niko’s my friend.” and that’s that. </p><p>So it’s Keiko who really helps him through the transition and signing. She catches Niko and his father practicing and demands to be included, and it becomes routine. They write notes to each other when communication fails them and it works somehow. </p><p><em> Have you heard from Eve, </em> she writes, one day, out of the blue. Rei is sprawled out on Niko’s couch, her knuckles in her mouth, watching them. Papa dotes on her, when he’s around--Niko think Keiko waited until he went to the butcher to even ask this. An ugly noise rises in his throat, which makes the tense look on Keiko’s face soften just a bit.</p><p><em> It’s been almost three years, </em> he writes back. (Niko keeps mental benchmarks to keep himself going. To be precise, it's been a year since Keiko marched into his life. It's been two years and eight months since Eve left.)</p><p>Impatiently, Keiko says, “That doesn’t answer my question.” </p><p>And he doesn’t know how to tell her there’s a reason there are so many people looking twee in their nice suits around his house. Why papa needs to send so many text messages before he steps foot outside. How he’d had to beg Eve for the favor of letting him have visitors. How he asks for updates, sometimes, and had drank himself silly the day he learned that Eve gave birth to a beautiful baby girl about a year and a half ago with someone who definitely traumatized them both.)</p><p>Was it the hormones, he wonders? Was he not enough, as a Beta? The science around compatibility is a fickle thing, but he’d never seen Eve as alight with passion as she was, working on Villanelle’s case. They rarely communicate, but she’s always kind when they do, with none of the desperation or frustration he would have expected after the bitter way things ended. Supposedly divorce is tiring, but theirs had been a matter of negotiation and the odd meeting, and each time, he could glimpse blonde hair, waiting around the corner. MI5 may think they have the two of them tamed, but they only live for each other. And, well, now their daughter, too, he thinks, breathing in deeply. </p><p>He signs No. </p><p>Keiko sighs. She glances over at Rei. When Rei notices that she’s being looked at, she smiles. Niko can’t help a vicarious grin of his own. She’ll be five soon. It feels almost weird to even think about a life where she’s not here to tug on his pant leg and ask him if he kept any lemon candies for her. </p><p>“There’s so much I want to ask her. About, you know. What happened. And everything that came after. She literally fell off the face of the Earth after you two divorced. What happened?” </p><p>Niko writes that she’s moved back to her hometown in America--that while MI5 and the FBI have a complicated relationship, they still work together, and there’s power in someone with experience on her level. <em> It’s for the best, </em> he adds.</p><p>Keiko covers her hand with his, squeezes. “We’ll help each other out, yeah?” </p><p>He nods. The rickety jingle of papa’s keys hit the door, signaling the end of this conversation, which is bound to send him into an apoplexy of frustration on Niko’s behalf.</p><p>He writes, <em>All you have to do is feed and water me.</em></p><p>Papa catches Keiko's answering laugh as he comes back in, and then he's shuffling over with his shopping to throw an arm around both of their shoulders in a laughing hug, happy as ever to soak in the emotions of other people. Niko hopes to be able to do the same, with the time he has left.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carolyn is there, thank god, when the last of the Twelve is killed. </p><p>For all the work they’ve done--all the travel, all the calls, all the favors cashed in and negotiation and paper work--it feels strangely anticlimactic to watch as Villanelle side swipes a woman they’ve been chasing through a forest with a rusty two-by-four. </p><p>It slams into the side of the woman’s face with a sickening crunch, and then she falls twitching to the ground, wet foliage and grass beneath her, staining the lavender of her suit. Tuning out scents had been the earliest of Carolyn’s training, but even she can sense the acrid stench of omega fear that is rising steadily from the omega woman. </p><p>In another life, Carolyn might have asked--does she mean it? Is this really her? Have they caught them all, and if so, is there no use in keeping the last one alive so they can press her for answers on how not to let something like this happen again? </p><p>But then Villanelle is baring her teeth and lunging forward. “I’ll say this in French so it makes the most sense to you.” </p><p>She says awful things. How she’d fantasized about this. How it’s been amazing to put a face to that which has haunted her. How she’ll savor it. But what stands out the most are six simple words: “<em> My family will always come first. </em>” </p><p>“Villanelle,” the woman, Hélène, chokes out, “we were your family.” </p><p>Carolyn feels, strangely, like she’s intruding on a very private moment. She puts her hands in her pockets. She turns her back to the two of them. </p><p>Villanelle, who is normally verbose to the point of agonizing, says nothing. Carolyn hears the sound of her improvised weapon hitting flesh for some time, far past Hélène’s last rattling breath. </p><p>Then, she says, “Let’s go.” </p><p>Carolyn calls her contact with the FBI. They move forward, never looking back. </p><p>Later, a trembling Villanelle bends down so that Eve can wrap her arms around her shoulders in a shaky hug, uncaring of the blood and gore dirtying her face and hair. They shower at the facility in Hartford, sit through hours and hours of grueling interviews, and are released relatively unmolested. Eve insists on serving dinner, and then gets frustrated halfway with just the idea of touching a stove and orders pizza. When they return, the teenaged babysitter cheerily informs them that “Ekaterina is sleeping just fine,” and Villanelle bolts down the hallway.</p><p>Eve and Carolyn stand in the foyer for just a moment, watching each other. </p><p>“Well, you did a great job of losing the baby weight.” </p><p>It has the desired effect. The stress on Eve’s face lightens up with her familiar smile. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you the truth.” </p><p>Carolyn waves her hand. Such is the nature of people like them. She’d been similarly protective of her own children, and look where that had gotten one of them. Carolyn has never been a typical omega or woman. She’s not nice or accommodating, she’s not particularly a conventional beauty, and she uses her biology to her advantage. Eve took the road less traveled, but they are similar in many ways. </p><p>“May I see her?” </p><p>Eve hesitates only a little bit, before nodding. “Yeah, come on.” </p><p>The house is tentatively lived in, in the way that homes for new parents are. There are scattered photos here and there, spartan decorations leaning an almost sanctimonious touch to the place. There’s an elephant figurine on an end table, and then wilting flowers on the other, and an assortment of stamps in an open box on the end. Carolyn glimpses Star Trek themed ones, which is all Eve. The ones littered with different languages has to be someone else. </p><p>“Fire the babysitter,” Villanelle demands, as they make their way into the room at the end of the hall.</p><p>“Why? What now?” Eve asks, laughing a little bit. </p><p>“Look what she did to her <em> hair </em>,” Villanelle whines, pointing.</p><p>A little hair bow has some of the girl’s curl hair pointing upward, like the sleepiest, quietest Who in Whoville. </p><p>“Go get some rest.” Eve tells her, not even entertaining what would surely be an oncoming wave of theatrics. </p><p>Villanelle must be truly tired, for she gives her child one last look. There’s an almost greedy, open fascination in that look. Then she gives Eve a hug, rocking her back and forth. After waving wordlessly in Carolyn’s face, she takes her leave, letting out a shaky breath. </p><p>Eve looks after her with a sad smile. Then she turns to Carolyn. “It’s really over?” </p><p>“As far as I can tell, yes. I’ll double check, of course.” </p><p>Eve leads her over to the little bed. </p><p>"Are you happy you got the girl, Eve? Not a half-bad job, and a family. Safety, at least in the way that assassins have safety."</p><p>Carolyn asks the question mostly to put her off balance. This is a habit she has been unable to push since she realized she could read people in between the lines of the performances they put on for others. She's surprised by the tired little smile that crosses Eve's face. She looks down at where her daughter is sleeping peacefully in her bed, dark curls a sprawling mess against her pillow.</p><p>"Could have been a lot worse."</p><p>Carolyn allows her instincts to do what Geraldine has laughingly dubbed the “mummy check.” Five fingers, five toes. Warm, situated safely and peacefully in her space. A heavy sleeper, evidently--or certainly someone used to being handled by affectionate parents.</p><p>“How old?” </p><p>Eve opens her mouth and then pauses, chuckling. “God, I hate it when people say stuff like 'sixteen months' but I just almost did it. She's, uh, one.” </p><p>“My, you are far and away a better liar than I gave you credit for.” </p><p>This earns her a quiet laugh. “Omission is a bit easier.” </p><p>“So. What now?” Carolyn asks. </p><p>Eve sighs. Curls her hands over the railing of the bed and sways back and forth. She’d been laughingly dismissive of the idea of ever having children not too long ago, and halfway bored to tears with her first husband, but there’s this almost girlish look of wonder in her eyes when she says, “I keep going. We keep going.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>